


Crossed Your Mind (Like a Bullet)

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, And Then It REALLY Gets Crazy, And This Thing Where One Tortures The Other With Carresses, BDSM, Blood Play, Bondage, Choking, Collars, Come Marking, Demeaning, Dirty Talk, Episode: The Abominable Bride, Face-Fucking, Flogging, Gags, Gun play, I Don't Even Know, I Know of Six Occasions, Knife Play, Leashes, Like Dry-Humping His Foot, M/M, Marking, Mind Palace Moriarty, Moriarty Wanking In Holmes's Surprisingly Comfortable Bed, Murder Fantasy, Name-Calling, Nipple Torture, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rope Bondage, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking, Symbolic Bondage, There's A Thing With Holmes's Foot, This Stuff is WAY OUT THERE Because It's Moriarty's Wank Fantasy, Threats, Tickling, Verbal Abuse, Whipping, bootlicking, shaming, straight razor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6680599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On six occasions, Moriarty visited Holmes's manly-smelling rooms, and wanked to the smell of his hair oil on the pillow of his surprisingly comfortable bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part The First: Rope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TeaHouseMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/gifts).



**I.**

His rooms. Locked door. Smells of tobacco and very good whisky and the Macassar oil he uses to fix his hair in place. Move some things from desktop to drawer, from bookcase to violin case. Nothing he’ll need every day; things he will need eventually. Fireplace still warm; he’s only just gone.

Bedroom door lock easily picked with a tie tack and inside is not a trace of him.  _Holmes_. It could be any room. A room in a hostel, a hotel, a hospital, or a whorehouse (a nice one). His suits of clothes and all his shoes and his dressing gowns and nightshirts and small clothes and slippers are hung and folded behind doors and drawers. Who’d have thought he’d be so insistent on such meticulous  _order_? All that cold logic. Might have assumed the chaos that must be in him, way down deep in there ( _Deep inside him. Holmes_.), would find a way out somewhere in his life. Not here.

Oh, but how prettily rumpled his bed must be when first he rises from it, the sloughed-off scent of him there in the bedclothes still warm from the skin of his bare legs and forearms.

For the moment, though, it is all arranged, pulled taut, woolen, modest and straight-cornered. The pillows smell faintly of rose, of orange, and more deeply of salt-dark perspiration. That head of his must burn hot, what will all that goes on inside it.

He sheds his morning coat, drops it in a heap on the floor, stretches flat on his back like a corpse in the coffin. Digs his head into the pillow. Closes his black eyes. Opens the fastenings of his trousers.

_Holmes._

“What a pretty prize to find. I do wonder, though, what did I do to win it?”

“Oh, now, Holmes. You haven’t won it  _yet_. This is only the start.”

Holmes is already stripped to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat; cuffs discarded and sleeves turned back. His eyes are so pale, and they  _stare_. Naked on the bed, Moriarty shifts his legs apart so that Holmes will begin. A wide palm, spread fingers, right in the center of his belly. To show him that he is owned.

“You will watch,” Holmes commands, his voice like a slick of velvet ribbon dragged teasingly from clavicle to breastbone to ribs and hip and thigh ( _Oh that’s a good image; hang onto that one_ ). Moriarty’s eyes fix on his, issuing a challenge rather than accepting it, and his mouth rolls slow into a closed-mouth grin.  _Make it pretty_ , he thinks but does not say. Of course he will make it pretty. He will make it mathematically, aesthetically, and practically perfect. It will be the Platonic ideal of restraint.

Holmes opens the dark-cherrywood door of the wardrobe and inside on three hooks are three looped lengths of finely-woven, cream-coloured cotton rope. The back of his neck above his shirt collar is magnificent. Moriarty reaches, Holmes’s back is turned, he won’t know.

“Hands off.”

Of course he knows.

Moriarty surrenders his limbs as Holmes goes to work--no artisan ever wove so pretty a pattern as he does, so precisely, with elegant movements, not a single one wasted--but he keeps his eyes fixed on Holmes’s face so that every time he glances up, he must meet the defiant gaze. _You have me, I’m yours, of course I’m yours. . .because I give myself to you. Only because I give it_. Holmes’s breath comes loud and hard between parted lips as he twists and folds and loops the rope; he knows he is creating a work of art, and even his coldly logical mind can be swayed from the mundane when presented with a thing of true beauty, even one of his own creating. Only because I give it.

In the end, Moriarty is a pretty puzzle: a purposeful tangle of rope around his lower torso provides many options for knottng and looping his limbs in place, and so he has been arranged to Holmes’s liking with knees resting wide beside his chest, ankles trapped to keep him bundled there, wrists bound at his sides. All those most private parts of him are utterly exposed. His cock is hard and proud, jutting up between his pulled-back thighs. Holmes ducks down, and pulls from beneath the bed a firm wedge-shaped cushion he slides beneath Moriarty’s wide-spread arse and hips, to cant him upward, putting his heavy bollocks and his hole on display. His prick twitches and thrums; the head is flushing light red and his foreskin strains, unable to contain it.

“Liked that, did you?” Holmes asks, not really asking, and the upward tilt of his eyebrow pulls the corner of his mouth along with it. “Do your fellows at the university know, Professor, what a slut you are?”

Moriarty goes on staring, meeting the gaze.

There is a leather strap, not so heavy or long as a belt, and it smacks down across his upper chest again and again until he is panting (Holmes is panting). One lick on each of his nipples and he sweats, rides a wave of nausea as the pain rolls through him.

“Thank you, darling. You never look so handsome as when you’re beating me so soundly.”

“Close your mouth.”

“Please. . . _precious_. . . may I have some more?”

Holmes does not stand for bratting. He loosens his cravat and opens his shirt collar as he rounds the bed. Resting one hand on Moriarty’s bound shin, he whips the well-presented arse, walloping each side in its turn, until Moriarty is grunting through gritted teeth at each blow. He will be garishly bruised. He will have to crawl out of these rooms.  _Good_. Moriarty will be all too grateful to wear the marks of the only man on earth who can tame him.  _Holmes_.

“That’s lovely. Open your trousers, now, darling. Sit on my face and I’ll lick you until you spend in my hair.”

“Shut your mouth, wanton.”

“No? In my eye?  _Hrm_. . . dunno. . .might sting a bit. Here’s a proposal: sit on my  _chest_  and you can spill into my  _mouth_.” Moriarty runs his tongue over his lips, then again. Leaves his mouth wide open, his tongue pressed low inside. “ _Anh? Ight ‘ere_?”

Holmes’s teeth clench around the instep of his foot, and he shrieks a yelp, bright white agony flashing through him and threatening his own end.

It’s a shock when Holmes’s tongue lands in the cleft of his spread backside and strokes up, quick and hot and wet, all the way up and over his bollocks, and Moriarty lets go an undignified noise, and his breath comes out in hard huffs. Holmes’s bare hand smacks him, bright and sharp, and he moves away. There is a vein running down his bare forearm that Moriarty longs to slice with a surgeon’s knife, slow but not deep, and Holmes would open his mouth for Moriarty’s kiss. This vision draws a whimper from his throat and he closes his eyes.

A drizzle of oil. Holmes’s elegant fingers, two, sliding, then shoving, then nearly-but-not-quite withdrawing, and he is watching Moriarty’s face as he works in and out, has the nerve to look bored.

“I’ll cut you in a thousand pieces, darling,” Moriarty pants. “I’ll break every one of your long lovely bones by st-- _stomping on_ \--you.”

“You won’t.”

“You’re right, I won’t.”

The fingers are relentless; his knees ache; his nipples ache; his cock aches and throbs and thrums.

“I’ll lock you in a trunk and listen to you howl.”

Holmes makes a swerving motion with his wrist and suddenly Moriarty is dying, he is dying. . .

“You’ll howl,” Holmes corrects him, his voice maddening steady. “Howl now. Howl for me now, Professor.” The fingers twist and press and Moriarty does howl, he does howl, of course he howls.  _Only because I give it to you. Howl for you. Holmes._

The pillow is soaked where he’s bitten it; he swipes the sticky back of his hand across the woolen blanket. Rearranges his clothes. Smooths his hair with a dollop of Holmes’ macassar oil (so sorry, old chap, did I leave the stopper off the tube and it dripped all over that pretty Persian rug under your wash stand?) and retrieves his coat from the floor. Flicks it in the air to shake off Holmes’s dust.

It’s a surprisingly comfortable bed.

 

 

**II.**

He walks the streets at night without even a pistol, a knife, or an anti-garrotte collar. Brave or foolish, who’s to tell, but anyone in his eyeline who intends him a harm will be instantly recognizable by the dust on the boots or the glint of the watch chain or the length of the beard. Hence, unless Holmes is taken from behind. . .

_Ha._

Unless he is taken from behind, Holmes is in no danger of being conquered, vanquished,  _annihilated_. And so his rooms are empty at twenty ‘til midnight while the elegant, pale-handed Holmes mingles with the hoi polloi, dirtying his suit of clothes and the skin of his cheek. Perhaps his knees (in reality, unlikely, but it is too pretty a picture to entirely dismiss).

The bedclothes are thrown back; he must have sprung from his bed, dressed in a hurry (the latch on the wardrobe door did not properly catch and it hangs open just a bit), raced out to find a focus for his burning brain. He has intense need, intense craving, and it wants to be fed, no matter how indecent the hour. And speaking of indecent. . .

There is a spatter of damp on the bed sheet that covered him, carelessly folded back so the evidence of his depravity--of his inability to control his baser desires (despite his assertions to the contrary, he is rife with needs that demand satisfaction, and he satisfies them, to his shame)--is obvious, wet and salty and just now flaking at the edges.

Moriarty sinks to his knees there by the side of the bed, torso bent to the mattress, face digging in, smelling him, inhaling him, tasting him ( _curse you, Holmes, and bless you, too_ ) and his fingers move to unfasten his trousers.

“Bad boys who use their hands when they shouldn’t, surrender them. You know this.”

Holmes is a long silvery sliver of skin over muscle next to bone, stretched out like an offering. He presses the interiors of his wrists together and extends his arms to be bound, surrendering his hands to Moriarty.

A quick flick of his chin, indicating, and Holmes follows the silent command, raising his clasped hands far over his head, loosely grasping one of the head board’s upright spindles.

“Will you behave, or must I tie you?” Moriarty drawls out, checking his pocket watch (he keeps a photograph inside the lid, of Holmes, with the eyes inked out). “Don’t bother to answer. I don’t actually  _care_  what you have to say. You’re always  _talking, talking, talking_.” He flaps fingers and thumb together, like the mouth of a Mr Punch. He yanks open the wardrobe, finds the three looped ropes hanging neatly inside the door. He fetches them down and in no time has fastened Holmes into a pretty shape, ankles lashed to each corner-post of the foot board; wrists bound together over his head. Moriarty checks the slack--wouldn’t want our boy dislocating a shoulder when things really get going--then pinches the soft inside of Holmes’s bicep, drawing forth a sharp gasp. Stepping back to survey his work, Moriarty is pleased with the picture of Holmes stretched and restrained for him.

“All that talking. . .I’m tempted to stuff my handkerchief in your mouth, but I do like the sounds you make.”

Holmes’s eyes, when they meet his gaze, are wide and soft--surrendered. He licks his fat pink lips and says nothing.

Moriarty claps his hands together, rubs his palms to warm them. “We’ll put a pin in that then, and get to it!. . .Dirty  _boy_ , Holmes,” he says, and wags a finger at him, shaming. “Dirty, dirty. Abusing yourself. You’ll go blind.” Holmes’s gaze follows him as he rounds the bed, in no hurry, and at last slides open the top drawer of the chest. “Mustn’t abuse yourself. That’s my job.”

The scourge has a nice solid handle, wrapped in rough silk, and its dozen-and-a-half slim tails are of perfectly thin-thick leather, slick on one side; soft and rough on the other. He begins with the soles of his feet.

A slow drag from heel to toes, tickling, then two lashes, not too much, but Moriarty’s wrist is supple and his intention is to gift  _pain_ , and Holmes sucks air across his teeth in a most gratifying manner. Now he knows what to expect, as Moriarty draws the tails of the scourge up the length of the other pretty, skinny foot, Holmes’s knee wants to bend, he wants to draw away, but the rope around his ankle holds him in place, only giving a few inches. The long, taut muscle of his thigh as it flexes infuriates Moriarty, it’s so gorgeous.

A solid, smacking drumbeat rhythm now, as the tongues lick down against Holmes’s shins, migrating steadily upward along the pale legs, his thighs going pink as he is beaten. Moriarty chants in time with it.

“Bad. Boy. Holmes. Bad. Bad. Boy. And now. You have. The nerve.”

He swirls the many little tails in a sweet tangle over the tops of the thighs, where the dark hair is thickest, caresses the bollocks, then drags the whole beautiful thing up along the length of Holmes’s erect member.

“Oh, Holmes,” he sighs. “You really are a filthy pervert. Lucky you have me. We’re two of a kind.”

When the scourge slaps down on his thighs it is twice as forceful, making a brighter sound, causing Holmes to thrash to the full extent of his bonds, making him cry out, “No!” It is beautiful, and Moriarty’s prick is as proud as Holmes’s, trapped inside his trousers, aching for relief.

A few edge-of-cruel lashes against Holmes’s chest, and his pink nipples bead up, eager for abuse. Moriarty pinches one between thumb and forefinger, pulling, rolling, until Holmes’s eyes shimmer with tears and he groans out his agony.

“Said I wouldn’t  _gag_  you,” Moriarty says, as if considering. “Perhaps could have clarified. It’s funny how words  _sound_  the same but mean different things, isn’t it, Holmes?  _Hmm?_ ” Holmes bites his lips, and when he blinks, tears stream out the corners of his eyes. Moriarty ducks down quick to lick the trail of one, finishes with a kiss against Holmes’s eyelashes. Rapidly resuming his full height, Moriarty unfastens his shirt cuffs and quickly turns back his sleeves, then smirks, and shoves his fingers into Holmes’s mouth, and he does gag, his tongue pushing at Moriarty’s fingers, his head struggling to turn away.

“You’ll want them wet, my dear boy,” Moriarty  _tsk_ s. “Don’t be naughty.” He draws his fingers halfway out and Holmes shifts from struggling to cooperation in an instant, lapping, sucking, eyes wide and pleading for approval. “That’ll do.” Moriarty lets the tails of the scourge drag down the length of Holmes’s face, down his throat, his chest, swerves away from his prick, which is now red-tipped, sticky, oozing. The scourge finds its way over and beneath his tight-skinned bollocks, between his thighs, and nudges them, indicating. Holmes obediently squirms and wriggles until his legs are as wide apart as he can manage, given the ropes fixing his ankles to the bed. He lets go an apprehensive-sounding groan.

“Well, this image is a keeper!” Moriarty chides, taking in the picture of Holmes as he is in this moment: tied and taut, triangular; pink-white skin a dazzling riot of crisscrossing slashes of angry red--on his shins, thighs, belly, chest--his straining prick needy for attention; his mouth open, eyes tearful, hair out of place and curling over his forehead. The handle of the little whip gets tucked into the front of Moriarty’s waistcoat for safe-keeping, the tails a little waterfall in front of his ribcage. Mounting the bed, Moriarty crawls between Holmes’s long, spread legs, and his fingers—cold, intrusive, unkind—find their mark even as he wets his lips with his tongue. Holmes’s eyes grow wide and his jaw works as if he will speak.

“Spit it out, boy.” Moriarty, for his part, spits into his own palm. The dangling tails of the scourge brush Holmes’s thigh as he leans down closer.

“ _Please._  . .”

Moriarty’s smile is cruel. “You’ll be screaming it by the time I’m through.”

His mouth descends onto Holmes’s prick, wide open and wet, sucking, licking, scraping teeth now and then to make him whinny. Holmes jerks his hips, fucking the not-wet-enough fingers, fucking Moriarty’s mouth, like a rent boy, like a rouge-cheeked whore, _moaning_ , and his cock throbs hot against Moriarty’s lips, he’s close, so close to spilling himself forcefully over the tip of Moriarty’s tongue, greedy slut that he is.

Moriarty withdraws. Holmes shouts furious frustration and tugs at all his bonds.

“ _Surely_  you didn’t think it would be that easy. Did you? Did you? Don’t answer.”

The scourge is retrieved from the waistcoat and Holmes receives a few lazy smacks on the hips--one on each side of his prick--to call him back from the brink. Its handle ends in a smooth, polished wooden bulb, chestnut sized. Moriarty lazily flicks his wrist to offer it, just in front of Holmes’s parted lips.

“You’ll want this wet, too. Wet as you can get it.”

As Holmes goes after it with a circling tongue, drawing it into his mouth to suck it, to soak it, Moriarty leans close to his face, close enough to lick, or to bite.

“Say you’re _mine_ , Sherlock Holmes.”

Holmes grunts in the negative, and as Moriarty draws the handle away from his mouth, he says, “No bother, my darling. We both know who owns you.” He slithers downward, tangling one leg in the rope that binds Holmes’ ankle to the foot board, and sliding his own erection against Holmes’s foot, abrading his skin with the nubby wool of his trousers. Holmes whimpers, and his foot flexes. “Ah, good boy,” Moriarty sighs. “No mercy, though, I’m afraid--not even for good boys.”

The bulb of the handle is pressed inside of Holmes’s tight hole then, and the scourge arranged prettily spread on the mattress and his thighs. He whimpers and his hips shift with discomfort. Moriarty goes on rocking his crotch against Holmes’s bound ankle, the arch of his long foot, and takes him in hand, jerking in time. The ascending steps of Holmes’s  _oh. . .oh. . .Oh. . .OH_. . .is gorgeous beyond measure, until Moriarty releases his grip on the drizzling pink cock, once more denying Holmes his release—his _pleasure_ — and yanks free the whip, rocks hard against the long, slender, tightly-restrained foot. Moriarty beats Holmes on the thighs, hard, relentless, until he is  _screaming_. . .

Moriarty’s face is pressed deep in the rumple of bedclothes, there bent double over Holmes’s bed, and the clock is striking midnight as he spends himself onto the carpet. Holmes will smell the ghost of it when next he lies here, with his mouth bitten shut and his thighs spread wide as if he were tied, face aflush with shame at his irresistible penchant for self-abuse.

Dirty boy.


	2. Part the Second: Knife

**I.**

His rooms are different in the daylight. There is dust thick on every surface, and the brocade of the drapes shows its age, faded and with loose threads hanging, forlorn. There is a telltale stain--ah, but, make that  _five_  telltale stains--on the settee. Only to be found if you’re looking for them, and Moriarty is looking close enough to smell them.

Oh, that? It’s nothing. Spilt milk from the tea tray, or a bit of egg from the careless handling of a breakfast plate he balances on his belly as he lounges because he can’t be bothered to rise for anything that isn’t fabulously interesting.

It’s not a bit of egg; of course it’s not. Three are Holmes; only two are Watson, wonder what happened there?

Ah. Of course.

The bedroom behind its easily picked lock is no better--if anything, its asceticism enhances its shabbiness. Plain old furniture that might as well be made of sticks. Bed sheets of rough drill, coverlet of scratchy wool. There are great swathes of the Persian rug worn so thin the floorboards show through.

But, oh, his razor is open on the wash stand, left to dry leaning up on the basin’s edge, shiny and slick and sharp and inviting. It could give a man ideas, and it does, so Moriarty sheds his coat, kneels up on the foot of the bed, and unfastens his trousers.

“You’ll give me what I desire,” Holmes says in tones of low velvet. “My brown-eyed whore. My pretty, bratty boy.” He barely slows as he passes the wash stand, sweeping up the open razor in his long fingers and lifting it before his face, pinky delicately balancing the silver tail so the blade rests straight and true in his grip. “Tell me you’ll give me what I desire.”

“I’ll give it you, all right. Can you take it, though, darling, that’s the interesting que—”

Holmes stuffs a wadded-up silk sock in his mouth and secures it with a leather cord tied snugly against the base of his skull. The sock has been worn. Moriarty gags and his tongue pushes uselessly against it. His eyes fill with tears of gratitude; Holmes will beat him into the dirt.

His wrists are looped together loosely behind his back with a length of the white rope Holmes keeps coiled in the wardrobe; he can move his hands no farther forward than the sides of his torso. For the time being, he clasps them in the small of his back, knelt there on Holmes’s mattress.

Holmes has stripped to the waist, braces hanging low around his hips. His hair has come loose a bit, one luscious dark curl hanging like a comma against his forehead. He sets the tip of the blade flat beneath Moriarty’s chin and draws it up with barely any pressure. Moriarty fills his eyes with his defiance; Holmes narrows his own eyes cruelly, then lifts one eyebrow as he murmurs, “We shall see about that, my boy.”

He slides the blade lightly down beneath Moriarty’s chin, along his throat, sets its edge there in he notch at the base of his throat and presses, gently pulsing. Moriarty surges, and his nipples harden. Holmes gives one a cruel pinch and tug, holding the tip of the razor there between his clavicles, and cuts a glance downward.

“Knees wide,” he commands, and Moriarty shifts, keeping his chin up, his eyes open. Holmes leans around to evaluate the back, but gives no indication of pleasure or dissatisfaction. Moriarty’s arse is on his heels, and he rotates his ankles to spread himself a bit. Holmes grunts a humourless laugh. “Trying to win me over, are you?” he asks. He steps away again, and Moriarty makes minute adjustments to his posture; the more perfect he is at the beginning, the more ruined he will be at the end.

Holmes looms up behind him, then, and his right hand holds the razor flat against his breast, just above his beaded-up nipple; a half-inch slip and Holmes will slice it right off. Moriarty sighs contentment, kittenish. Holmes’s left hand is cold and impossibly slick as it slides through the cleft of Moriarty’s arse, grasping and tugging his bollocks, then back again. It’s a mess, so wet Moriarty can feel it dripping, oozing, running in rivulets, what is it?

As Holmes reaches over his hip to manhandle his prick fully to life--quick and efficient, all business, a means to an end--the scent of the sloppy, too-wet ooze in his palm and on his fingers rushes into Moriarty’s nose and he places it: spicy, floral. . .oh, but  _all man_. . .the oil Holmes slicks through his hair to tame it. What a sweet-smelling, wet mess he’s made. And now his hot breath with its tobacco-stale reek comes beside Moriarty’s ear.

“You’ll give me your  _petit mort_ , my sweet gutter-garbage. Not because I’ll touch you, because I won’t.” The slimy, cold palm slides harshly up Moriarty’s thigh, cleaning the oil off on the sparse dark hair there. “You’ll give it because _I want it_.” His voice is heavy and dark with threat, and Moriarty’s cock aches in response. The blade shifts infinitessimally,  _bites_ , and when Holmes draws it away, the slit weeps a red tear. Resting his chin in the dip between neck and shoulder, Holmes orders, “Look, boy,” and Moriarty looks. Holmes’s hand, white and pretty as a lily, appears so that two fingertips can stroke the wound and make it sting, then paint the blood in a circle around the pink pebble of Moriarty’s nipple. Moriarty whimpers; Holmes hums.

The razor is against his throat then, and Moriarty goes still as stone, though his prick thrums delight at the danger. He aches, wants to thrust into something wet and warm and tight, and he rises up off his heels just enough to roll his hips uselessly.

“Give it to me, cocky boy,” Holmes demands, and does nothing at all to help, the great bloody bitch.

Moriarty growls.

A rapid, disorienting upheaval and Moriarty’s cheek is at once flat against the horrid, itchy coverlet, with Holmes’s heavy hand pressing hard and huge against the side of his head to hold him there. Of course, with his knees still planted, his arse has tilted up in the air, his back a bowed slope from shoved-down shoulder to lifted hip. The bright sting of the blade drags slow and light along the length of his spine, and he feels Holmes hard and proud inside his woolen trousers, there rocking against Moriarty’s upper thigh, seeking his own relief, like a dog. Moriarty leans as far away as he dares without rocking out of balance, and Holmes grunts frustration.

“Bleeding for me, now,” Holmes reports, and his head dips down, his tongue-tip flicks, and it’s hot and salt-stinging and Moriarty’s dangling cock curves hard toward his belly. “Give me what I desire.” Holmes has become breathless and as he raises his head, Moriarty can see at the edge of his vision the fat lower lip stained glossy red like a woman’s, and he groans hard and loud around his gag to think of that mouth on him, on his neck, his nipple, his cockhead, his bollocks.

Holmes has marked the edge of his rump with a stinging, singing little “x”, quick as you please, and traces it with a fingertip that then nudges up against his opening, and Moriarty’s stomach flutters hard with wanting to get away but he is pinned to the spot by a hand on his face and his tied hands and the fact that he wants Holmes to lay him low, make him bleed,  _yes_ , make him come, _yes_ , make him _his_ , his  _boy_ , his  _whore_ , his  _nothing_. He wants to scream, _finish me!_ , and surely that is why Holmes has clogged up his mouth.

It occurs to him that the hand bearing the finger working its way inside him is the same hand holding the razor, and—yes—there it is. And there. And there, too, edges and corners, nipping, brushing, slitting, slicing. His fingers are talented but that’s quite a bit to manage all at once, and there is a bright hot pinprick  _oh god, so close,_  and Holmes ruts hard against the side of his hip, long callused finger slick with blood and palm oil now thrusting in time with the roll of his pelvis, and the razor is nicking, sliding,  _oh_ , falling, and Holmes gives him orders.

“Bloody whore. Give me what I desire. I want to see you shake. I want to hear you whine. Give it to me. Give it to me. Give it to me,  _boy_.”

Moriarty’s face is hard-pressed against Holmes’s pillow with its sweet-salty scent of left-behind hair oil and perspiration, and he is on his knees with his arse in the air and his prick in his hand, and nothing is ever enough at moments like these but a man can dream of being Sherlock Holmes’s bloody boy, and of giving Sherlock Holmes what he desires, and so Moriarty gives it, and leaves it in streaks on the scratchy coverlet, and licks the blade of the razor before he folds it and sets it--just so--on the wash stand.

He likes to leave Holmes little love notes like these.

 

**II.**

Holmes has left an open packet of cigarette papers beside a green glass ashtray and a tin of tobacco atop his chest of drawers, near the ivory comb he draws through that slick-oiled hair of his, and a pair of mother-of-pearl cuff links that were clearly a gift from some beloved one—Moriarty knows who, and sniffs disdain. . . _to be tickled by that mustache, though. . ._ —but which Holmes does not care for. How sentimental, then, that he fixes the things through his perfect cuffs of his perfect shirt beneath his perfect coat. Isn’t he a pretty picture, all done up like a husband gone to church of a Sunday.

_Husband, indeed. Which one d’you s’pose is the wife? Dunno, I’ll ask him._

It is just going dusk; Holmes’s half-eaten tea is still on the sitting room table, his fork neatly rested at five o’clock to indicate the landlady should take the plate away, should she come to fetch it. Moriarty always leaves the bedroom door unlocked, and does so now. He shrugs off his coat and swaps his own gold cuff links for Holmes’s cheaper, gaudy ones, and loosens his black cravat and the shirt collar from around his neck. He stretches sideways on Holmes’s bed. It is narrow and insubstantial and completely unglamourous--like the bed of a monk in a musty abbey. But,  _oh_ , his pillows are heavily, headily redolent of the scent of him: Macasser oil and the sweat from his hot-running head as he dreams of infinite patterns and the lowest common denominator among the seven hundred people he encounters of an afternoon, striding up the road with purpose to set the police straight

Moriarty is already rampant as he shoves Holmes’s pillow against and between his thighs, oozing hot as he ruts against it in slow, shallow waves.

Holmes standing long and pale, feet bare on the Persian rug, head bowed, hair mussed into slatternly waves. He is willing to be bound—wants to be bound—and so Moriarty tests his level of commitment by looping his own watch chain around Holmes’s thumbs, hands settled in the small of his back.

“Don’t let it fall, now, darling. Or.  _Well_.”

Into his trousers’ pocket, then, to draw out a pretty crucifix of bleached bone, the figure in its eternal agony wrought in pewter painted over with dull gold starting to wear away.

“It’s a  _menage a trois_ , my dear Mr Holmes,” Moriarty giggles, and rests the cross in his palm, turned so Holmes can see it beneath his lowered face. “Are you a believer, then?”

Holmes exhales, but says nothing.

“Well, let’s see if we both can’t see god by the time we’re through.” With a cunning flick of the wrist, the little crucifix reveals its true form as a sleek, silvery blade springs forth, double-edged, tapered to a wicked point. It is etched and painted with a motif of clovers and ivy. Near the heart of the thing, where the blade’s hilt crowns the bowed head of the agonised christ,  _JM_  is carved into the metal. Moriarty touches the tip of the knife to the spot just there in the center of Holmes’s chest, beneath his breastbone, and Holmes sucks his teeth.

“Settle down, darling, I’m not going to _kill_ you,” Moriarty breathes against his cheek. There is end-of-day stubble there, and across his upper lip, and thick on his chin, and Moriarty drags the tip of his nose across it. The blade’s wicked point tickles down the length of Holmes’s quivering belly almost to his navel, then swerves. There is a constellation of freckles there, up and to the right, and quick and bright, Moriarty draws a slender cross between them. It is white, and then red, and then streaming. Holmes’s thighs shiver and his prick thickens to hang heavier against his bollocks.

“ _Shhh_. . .” Moriarty soothes, grasps Holmes’s jaw and raises it so he can see the thick pink of Holmes’s lips parted to accommodate newly heavy breath. “Open wider, my dear boy,” Moriarty murmurs, and once Holmes’s teeth have made space, he places the blade between them, not flat, but with each sharp edge made to balance against the pretty white teeth. “Hold it. Careful you don’t cut yourself. That pretty mouth.”

Holmes’s eyes go momentarily wide with panic, but Moriarty’s hand at the back of his neck reminds him there’s no currency in struggle. The tip of the blade extends just past one corner of Holmes’s lips, and the crucifix juts proudly a few inches past the other corner. Spittle streams in tiny rivulets from each, and Holmes’s humiliation flushes his cheeks and chest pleasingly pink. “Pardon the pun, but  _christ_ , that’s beautiful. Now.” Moriarty elegantly slides the thumb of his right hand--then his left--down the length of his extended tongue, and with his gaze fixed on the pretty distress of Holmes’s face as he balances the knife in his bite, finds one pink nipple with each thumb and begins to swipe across them in steady, forceful tempo. They tighten in response, firming into pleasing little pebbles beneath his touch, and he carries on, not varying speed or pressure, until Holmes’s nostrils start to flare around harsher exhalations. Moriarty’s lips widen and bow, slowly, slowly, and his thumbs rub and rub, and Holmes’s prick jumps, and he whimpers, and his nipples grow warm as the saliva Moriarty licked onto his thumbs evaporates away.

Understanding dawns in Holmes’s eyes; the attention to the buds on his chest is growing uncomfortable. The knife clicks almost imperceptibly against his eyeteeth. His eyebrows rise above eyes once again going wide. Oh, he looks so troubled. How many villains has he faced, how many gun barrels stared down, how many women threatening him with their dark mystery, that inescapable oblivion between their mushy thighs?  _And yet_. He looks a bit troubled, doesn’t he? Worried? Afraid? Oh, he’s  _delicious_.

The edges of Moriarty’s nails are scraping now, on the outward drag, and Holmes’s toes curl into the carpet.

“Bit of a test, darling,” Moriarty spit-whispers, stepping back a half-step to get a better view. Holmes’s prick has become quite proud by now, and Moriarty’s tongue circles his own lips. His now-dry thumbs scrape hard across Holmes’s nipples, the pink coin-sized areolas going dusky as the blood rushes to tend to a perceived injury. He stops abrading them long enough to give each a quick, practised flick, flinging each middle finger out from beneath each thumb. Holmes gasps across the blade and there is a slight burble of the mouthful of saliva he cannot close his lips to swallow.

Moriarty clenches each swollen bud between thumb and forefinger— _hard_ —and pulls, and holds them stretched there well beyond the point of comfort, and half his mouth jerks up at the sounds Holmes makes at this: urgent grunts of distress that sound like begging. Tears fill turquoise eyes so lovely they belong in a woman’s face.

Moriarty holds the pinch another long moment, and Holmes’s shoulders have visibly tightened, willing himself not to disturb the watch chain binding his hands behind his back, fighting the urge to release the knife balanced delicately between his teeth. He looks so proud in his surrender, so determined. He is elegant and hard-edged, every lean muscle taut, his skin flushed. He is trying  _so hard_  to behave.

Moriarty’s tight-gripping fingers twist, and Holmes shrieks, spittle flying between teeth and blade to land on Moriarty’s cheek and brow. But even in this obvious agony he is remarkably still, feet planted, legs quivering but sturdy. At last Moriarty releases him, only to reach down and worry the bloody cross he slit into Holmes’s belly, to keep it bleeding. His fingertips come away slick and red, and he wants to lick, to taste--salty like his spend--full of metal and smoke, his  _life_  in it, oozing out into Moriarty’s waiting hand. Moriarty’s tongue darts, his fingertips are right there, but in the end he smears the blood onto one enflamed, raw-skinned nipple, skating the edge, pinching to make Holmes groan.

“You’re so _steady_ , my dear Mr Holmes,” Moriarty mock-praises, though the appreciation is genuine. “I see you’ve set that big brain to the task of taking what’s given.” Moriarty does lick two fingers then, though there is little of Holmes’s essence left staining them, and works them in a rough spiral around the abused little nub, now and then pinching, pulling, twisting, and Holmes’s breath and voice are the only evidence that his task is a difficult one.

Clutching the blood-stained nipple in a pincer-grip with his fingernails dug in, Moriarty  _bites_  the other.

The long, pale body thrashes in one fluid spasm as if shocked with an electric jolt, and Holmes shouts, and the knife thuds onto the carpet, then to the wooden boards with a dull clatter.

Moriarty draws back, steps to the side but his fingers stay busy worrying Holmes’s swollen and now-purple nipples. He jerks his head toward the knife, lying just this side of the chest of drawers.

“Fetch it back, then,” he orders.  _Housekeeping. Tedious_.

“Anything else,” Holmes gasps, and his biceps are flexed tight with the effort of keeping his hands still at the small of his back. “Please, anything else but more of this.” There are paper-edge-thin cuts on his lips, and the blood streaming out rouges his mouth like a whore’s.

“More of this, you say?” Moriarty tilts his ear toward Holmes’s face as if he hasn’t heard, and with the flats of his fingers smacks quick and sharp before going back to pinching, twisting, rolling. “All well and good but you dropped my knife, Holmes.” He yanks, out and down, and Holmes bends to follow, gritting his teeth. His brow and upper lip are sweating. Once he is on his knees, bent over the floor with his long hands clutched tight behind his hips, Moriarty releases him long enough that Holmes can carefully use lips and teeth and tongue to reclaim the knife, though he bites down on the handle with its suffering christ-figure, rather than on the blade.

Holmes sits back on his heels and his shoulders round forward, head heavy with exhaustion. He shakes his head a bit, then lifts his chin—keeping his eyes cast down, so respectful, good doggie heeling by his master’s knee--to present the knife.

Moriarty wants to dig out his pretty eyes and pocket them. He wants to slice off his worked-raw nipples and wash them down his throat with some of Holmes’s very fine whisky. He wants to slide the blade along the length of Holmes’s long, narrow prick until it is ruined. He wants to invade him with it, Holmes proud and begging, shrieking, spending his last, with Moriarty’s watch chain wound around his thumbs like wedding jewelry.

Both hands clutch Holmes’s pillow hard against his spasming pelvis and before Moriarty can finish assembling a daydream of Holmes face-down and arse-up on the Persian carpet, slit open from tail to throat with that pretty bone-handled knife, he is dying his own little death, wasting his precious seed of life onto the linen where Holmes will later lay his cheek, moaning low and breathless,  _Holy, Holy_.


	3. Part the Third: Gun

**I.**

Word is, he’s on his way back to his rooms. His cozy, cluttered, musty rooms that reek distinctly of the musk of men rutting up against each other, if you know which way to point your nose. Moriarty picks up Holmes’s pipes from their stand by his armchair in the sitting room, one after the next, and rolls his sopping tongue around each stem, sucks them into his mouth, plants little kisses there at each tip. With any luck they will still taste of his mouth when Holmes shoves one between his fat pink lips. Soon. He will come. He is coming. He will have come.

Best make it quick, then.

The door to his spartan bedroom is unlocked, the sheet and quilts and coverlet on the bed hastily yanked into place—he must not let the housekeeper or a maid enter his private sanctuary, this room where he rests his churning, burning head, where his suits of clothes hang like boneless ghosts in the wardrobe, where he  _must_  lie open-mouthed in this plain, narrow bed, with his long hand caressing his prick, mewling, panting. . .what must he think of, there with his pink nipple clenched between cruel fingers to remind him what he’s made of? Probably his own brilliance, the great bloody prig. His own blasted  _cleverness_  tents his trousers, almost certainly. He simply  _loves_  himself.

Moriarty opens his own trousers and kneels up near the lank, tired pillow—imagines Holmes’s head resting upon it, slicked hair undone and in disarray. Moriarty digs his fingers into those lightly-oiled locks and pulls, straddles Holmes’s naked chest. Is he tied? No, he is willing. His surrender is complete, his legs spread, his hands by his sides, kneading the bedclothes like a contented kitten as Moriarty guides the drizzling head of his cock against the pointed chin, up onto the wanton bottom lip. Holmes ducks his jaw, his mouth a wide, eager  _O_ , and Moriarty dips in. Holmes’s tongue is incredibly nimble, damp and hot.

Moriarty tests his mettle, leaning, shifting, thrusting down. Holmes’s eyes ooze tears, but he keeps them open, cheeks going pink because his air is choked off. Watching for signs of defiance, or panic, but all that shows is his utter submission. Drawing back, Moriarty mutters, “Say you’re mine, Sherlock Holmes.”

Holmes licks his lips in a slow circle, lets them part, glistening. Says nothing.

A hand around his throat, then, and Moriarty reaches back to grip his cock, hard and proud, rough-sliding in his fist, and it’s far from what’s wanted, surely, but Holmes rocks his hips up off the mattress nonetheless, and even as his lips go dusky and his eyes redden, he chokes out little scraping moans. He likes it. Moriarty grins, lets him go, and Holmes whimpers distress but then stills.

Another rearrangement, Moriarty steadies himself against the headboard to thrust down into Holmes’s mouth again, frigging himself against those lips, that tongue, and Holmes struggles with it, but aims to please--tongue rolling, lips pursing to suck, voice humming encouragement that sounds like begging, pleading for  _mmmmmmore. . .mmmmmmmore. . .mmmmmm_. . .Moriarty fucks his mouth for a few juttering, forceful strokes before retreating again.

“Not talking, darling?”

Holmes shakes his head, just barely, but his mouth is open, and he raises his face, trying to catch the glistening crown of Moriarty’s prick between those bruised and swollen lips.

“Say you’re mine. Just  _say you’re mine_.” Two fingers against his forehead press him back down to the pillow. Another gesture in the negative, but his eyes--those flint-edged, turquoise eyes--give him away. He is surrendered. He is willing. He is  _owned_.

Well, we’ll see now, won’t we?

Moriarty’s coat is in a rumpled heap nearby, and he leans back and twists, digs in, finds what he is looking for. When he resumes his position, enthroned on Holmes’s pale, freckled chest, folded knees at either side of Holmes’s face, he rests his hand over his heart in what might--in some other context, one where anyone in the room had properly functioning emotions--appear to be a romantic gesture. His pretty silver revolver is in his grip, though, finger on the trigger. Kills the romance a bit.

That pointed pink tongue rolls out in slow motion, and his hips begin to rock again, even with nothing to rut against, or into.

“You gorgeous whore,” Moriarty tells him, no awe in it, flat. “Brave.”

He shifts the gun to rub the tip of the muzzle against his own nipple, in cool circles, and Holmes sucks a breath, hands tightening around fistfuls of the bedclothes. His exhale is a pretty whine.

“Foolish,” Moriarty corrects himself, and lowers the gun barrel to trace the edge of Holmes’s jaw. His eyes roll back and drift closed a moment before he opens them again, and his gaze says what he refuses to put into full voice.

“Oh, see now,” Moriarty sighs, thrilled, satisfied. “You  _are_. You  _are_  mine. You are  _mine_.”

Holmes, who has been denying himself use of his hands because he is such a well-behaved, fully-submitted  _plaything_ , lifts one to rest long fingers against Moriarty’s hand where it cradles the pistol-grip, and guides it. His tongue circles the muzzle. His lips close around it. His head lifts and lowers, lifts and lowers, as he sucks, swallows, sucks, swallows,  _Christ, that mouth_ , now coming open to snake the thick tongue around, catching the edges of Moriarty’s fingers with velvety wet, shocking, ticklish.

Clever him, with that hand again, guiding wetted gun barrel and oozing prick to nestle up close, side by side, and his mouth stretches, his jaw works, saliva runs from the corners of his lips, tears run from the corners of his eyes, and he ruts up against nothing, digging his heels into the mattress, moaning, open-eyed, tongue wide and flat and low in his mouth, throat open, sucking to bring him off, swallow him down, won’t he look pretty with a hole in his head and his pillow stained ruby red, those sparkling, weeping,  _yes-I’m-yours_  eyes, glazing, drying, dimming.

Moriarty’s finger is twitching against the trigger.

“You’re  _mine_ , Sherlock Holmes.”

Moriarty’s shuddering paroxysm has him biting the top edge of the wooden headboard, pressing his cheek and forehead against the wall, spilling onto Holmes’s pillow in thick, desperate founts, and he has only time to settle his breath before he must tuck himself—still stiff and throbbing, still dripping the last of it—back into his trousers. His head is light as he smoothes his hair back from his brow, strides out of the bedroom (knocks over a lamp, not to break it, just to make himself known) and right out to the landing, feet merrily thumping down the steps in waltz time.

Soon Holmes will have come.

 

**II.**

Moriarty smokes Holmes’s pipe, sitting in Holmes’s favourite armchair, thinking about what it must taste like—the thick, stubbled neck beneath the high starched collar of one Dr. John Watson. Holmes’s favourite. So commanding, that one. Could take a man in hand, make him a boy. A dog. A girl. Moriarty shivers; _tantalising_. But Watson, with that really quite average brain of his. . .surely not the creative type. Strip. Kneel. Suck. Bow. Moriarty exhales a silver-blue ring that drifts, expanding, wavering. Former soldier, good with the orders, probably, but nothing unexpected. Holmes favours him; he must have hidden qualities. Moriarty’s seen the way he walks, though. So perhaps not so hidden.

The pipe has gone out and Moriarty does not place it in its stand but lays it on the table, and smells the varnish burning off beneath the still-hot bowl. He gathers saliva and deposits it into the stash of tobacco leaves piled in a queer little shoe with a pointed toe, stirs it with the tip of his finger. A sort of kiss.

The bed is made up tight, smooth as can be, and the room is tidy: Holmes  doesn’t let the girl in to clean it, lest she come across his coils of slender, soft rope hung in the wardrobe, or his drawer of carefully arranged implements: leather, silk, wood, bone. Bit of everything, because Holmes, with his really quite extraordinary brain, is a creative thinker.

Moriarty sheds his coat, waistcoat, even opens his shirtfront and the small clothes beneath. His nipples are pierced with thick, heavy rings, slightly stretched, weighted, always ripe and ready. Surely Holmes has deduced it. He hooks one thumb in each—they were customised to fit, by a jeweler whose other patrons also require discretion lest the Prussians get any funny ideas about who might be willing to submit—and he tugs, hard, twice, and makes himself gasp. His knees hit the carpet at the foot of Holmes’s simple wooden framed bed and Moriarty dreams of a night spent tied there, by a lead, collared, maybe petted. Probably kicked.

“Naughty, vandalising my rooms,” Holmes scolds. He is stripped to the waist, braces draping down over his hips, and draped prettily around the back of his neck, cascading down his chest, are two silk cravats of night-sky blue-black, and one long, slender length of black leather with a loop at one end big enough to encircle Holmes’s wrist.

Holmes sets one long, booted foot in the center of Moriarty’s upper back and pushes him down and forward until he his forehead and nose touch the carpet. Wool. Abrasive. Smells of stale pipe smoke, spilled port, and fog.

“I’ve noticed every single item you disarranged,” Holmes continues, deep voice mellifluous, threatening, Moriarty wants to roll over and offer his belly at the sound of it.

“ _Mm_ , dunno about _every_ one,” Moriarty corrects, defiant and taunting even with his face in the carpet.

“I know you’ve picked my locks. Eaten off my abandoned supper plates. Stolen my third best tie tack—I’ll have that back or I’ll make you eat it.”

“Gave it to a boy I rented down the docks, I’m afraid. Maybe you’ll run into him next time you’re shopping. Or do you not have use for them anymore, now you’ve got your soldier to slick up his elegant surgeon’s hands for you?”

Holmes’s boot comes down on the back of his neck this time, and it strains Moriarty’s spine so that he must force his knees apart, press his belly closer to the floor, his prick already fully attendant to the proceedings and brushing against the rough surface of the rug. He rocks his head sideways but his nose, mouth, and cheek deform against the floor. It’s glorious. Holmes is masterful, can bring him low with just this, a boot on his neck, and the velvet-slick rumble of his voice.

“Mind your manners. You are at heel. You will listen for your master’s commands, and  _obey_.”

“Command me, then, darling,” Moriarty taunts. Sweat is breaking out across his brow, and he is conscious of the shape he creates, folded there at Holmes’s feet, aims for an aesthetically pleasing arrangement by rolling his feet to show their arched soles, clasping his hands prayerfully just above his head.

“Grasp the leg of the bed. Both hands, stack your fists.” The boot lifts; Moriarty turns his head on his neck so his forehead touches the floor, and does as he is told. Once he is in place, Holmes leans down and ties one of the silk cravats around his wrists, loops it to catch the wooden upright, which is square-cornered and bites into Moriarty’s palm and knuckles. Once he is satisfied with the knots, Holmes drops to one knee, leans his face beside Moriarty’s so that his breath comes hot against Moriarty’s ear. “How much can you take. . .?” he threatens, barely a whisper. “Have you taken a candlestick? A walking stick? The handle of a lady’s silver hairbrush, all rosebuds and knotted vines?”

Moriarty’s breath leaves him.

Holmes resumes his feet and Moriarty can sense him circling like a panther around wounded prey. “A buggy whip’s handle?” The toe of Holmes’s boot nudges beneath his belly there at his side and indicates Moriarty should rise, and so he drags his knees back and in, presenting his arse. He puts a slight bow in his spine, thinking it will look prettier, tilting his pelvis upward. There is a cool, smooth drag across Moriarty’s buttocks then: the other cravat skimming, swirling. His prick jumps and gooseflesh rises on his arms and thighs. “A string of pearls?” Holmes wonders, and the slip of silk scrapes up and down in the cleft, over his hole; Holmes must be holding the tie at both ends now. At the thought of those elegant fingers fondling the silk, Moriarty shudders. Holmes scolds. “Settle down, wanton,” and Moriarty stills, amazed at his own pliancy; Holmes is more than a master—he is a monarch. A  _tyrant_.

“Those boots need a polish, darling?” Moriarty ventures, and means it to sound defiant though he hears his own voice quaver with need. “Let me lick them clean for you.” He would, too. For no other man in the world but Sherlock Holmes. But for him—only for Holmes—he’d do it in an instant. Gratefully.

Quick, cold fingers and the unbearable tease of the silk suddenly flutter all around Moriarty’s thrumming prick and aching, heavy bollocks until he is trussed, and instantly he is dangerously close—a throbbing pulse, an aching need to be finished—yet his end is impossible until Holmes pulls the loop, frees him, gives him a command. Oh, but it aches. It’s horrendous. Exquisite.

“Beat me,” Moriarty blurts then, into the rug. And then—louder—again, “ _Beat me_.”

Holmes huffs hard through his nostrils: a laugh, a scoff. He moves away, toward the chest of drawers, and there comes the familiar groan of the top drawer sliding open.

“How much can you take, Professor? My pet. My little dog. My  _wee beastie_.” This last he says in some burbled, half-swallowed imitation of Moriarty’s own proud brogue. “A weighted riding crop? Slim as my finger—merely a trifle.”

Moriarty whimpers, curses himself, curses Holmes. There is a sound of rearrangement in the drawer, and Holmes returns to Moriarty’s side, one blonde-brown boot beside his face that Moriarty can see from the corner of his eye. Holmes drops to his knee again, and in another swift motion of those clean, white hands, fastens a heavy leather collar around Moriarty’s neck, and fixes the lead to its dangling metal ring—so like the rings in Moriarty’s nipples, come to think of it. A needy groan escapes him—at last he is claimed, taken in hand,  _owned_ —and his mouth kisses those cruel, pretty hands, chasing them as they go, and then goes eagerly at the boot, tongue flat and wet, stroking, lapping, lips closing and parting again, kissing as deeply as he would Holmes’s smart-arse mouth, if only he were worthy.

A tug at the lead persuades him to raise his head, but his gaze stays fixed on the floor.

“How much can you take? My pet.” Holmes yanks. Then again.

“All of it. Everything.”

“Anything?” There is the arch of the lifted brow, even in the tone of his voice.

“For you, darling— _precious_ —anything.” Moriarty bends his neck, strains, opens his mouth and catches the lead between his teeth. He bites down and lets go an animal growl. “Beat me,” he demands, teeth clenched, mouth full of the taste of new leather. “Beat me, Holmes, for pity’s sake.”

Holmes’s palm alights in the center of his left buttock, but instead of the longed-for, thudding smack, it is a caress. Holmes slides his cool hand over Moriarty’s skin, smoothing, slow, and now it is both hands over his flanks, down his thighs then up the sides of his torso, sweetly, as if Holmes finds him beautiful, adores him. The cruelty of it draws another whimper from Moriarty, and he tries to shy away from the gentle touches, but Holmes follows, fingers splaying around his ribcage, fingertips brushing feather-light across his aching nipples, tugged downward by the rings, by gravity.

“You twisted pervert,” Moriarty mutters, letting the lead fall from between his teeth. Holmes hums amusement, and massages his biceps, up his throat, fingers through is hair, dragging it the wrong direction, then smoothing it back into place. “Hit me. Get your crop. Fetch the cane and take me for a naughty schoolboy and  _whip the devil out of me, Holmes.”_

Holmes’s voice is cool, dark, his reply an absolute torture: “ _No_.”

“Spit me like a pig on that long prick of yours.”

“ _Shhh_. . .” Quiet, gentle, as if they are lovers, and Holmes’s long fingers and palms pet his belly, tickling the trail of dark hair, then scratch gently into the wiry thicket of it, and Moriarty shivers despite himself.

“Make a cocksucker of me,” Moriarty commands. “I  _promise_  I won’t bite it off.”

Holmes’s hands fade away—dragging across the crease where Moriarty’s quaking thighs meet his belly—and he draws up the lead, raising Moriarty’s neck until his chin is proudly tilted upward, and holds him there. The slack, looped end of the lead traces tickling curlicues along the surface of Moriarty’s swayed back, taps—does not smack—against the cheeks of his arse.

“Flog me. Spank me. Don’t spare the rod, Holmes, you know what I’m _like_.”

The lead is readjusted, still holding his head upright on his collared neck, and Holmes must be gripping it between his teeth, for here again are his accursed, beautiful, cruel hands, too lightly stroking down the cleft, far too many fingers tickling his opening, then sliding down to fondle his aching, weighty bollocks in the most terrible, kindest manner. The wool of Holmes’s trousers against Moriarty’s upturned calves is warm, rough, soft, as he kneels behind, urging Moriarty’s knees just a bit farther apart.

“Very pretty, pet,” Holmes praises, and his fingers are slick as they delicately encircle and slip up the length of Moriarty’s cock, then down again, in no hurry, teasing. He is awful. _Holmes_. There is a fingertip touching, not breaching, not even pressing, and Moriarty rocks back against it, urgent, eager to please. Please  _him_?  _Holmes_? What has he become. Just a pet. Just a plaything. Just nothing like what he really is. It’s  _delicious_.  _Oh. . .oh. Oh, Holmes_.

“I’m going to tear out your throat with my teeth,” Moriarty threatens as he takes Holmes’s lanky finger inside ( _anything_ ). “I’ll hold your head under your bathwater until you go—” his breath catches; Holmes is fucking him slow, sweet, with just that one skinny finger “ _lih_. . .limp in the palms—of my—hands. Pity me, darling. . . _beat me_. Slap my face. Come—on now.”

Holmes withdraws, releases what there is of his grip on Moriarty’s desperate cock, and yanks the lead so the collar crushes his throat, stealing his breath and making his ears buzz. That’s more like it.

“Look here, little pup,” Holmes orders, and taps Moriarty’s right thigh. Languidly, Moriarty turns his face to cast a glance over his right shoulder. Holmes’s white hand hovers in the air beside his own shoulder, and in it is a long-barreled, heavy looking black pistol. “You said  _anything_ ,” Holmes intones, and he closes his eyes as he takes the thing between his lips and rolls his pointed tongue around it in the lewdest possible manner, then withdraws it. “Get your face in the carpet, _nothing_ ,” Holmes scolds, and Moriarty complies, burning his cheek against the wool, _it’s what I wanted all along, it was **you** dragged me up by this ridiculous perfect collar, honestly Holmes!, always with the theatrics when really you should be stepping on my neck. . ._

It’s thicker than it looks, unyielding, unlike anything, _anything_ before. Cold. Barely wet. Holmes lets out a heavy groan as the fingers of his free hand scramble beneath to tangle and tug in the silk that binds Moriarty’s prick and bollocks, denying him. Holmes increases the pace, the force, he is moaning now at the feel of it, the sight of it, the very _thought_. He is nearer his own little death than Moriarty is to his own, genuine one. Moriarty shakes his head until the lead drops in reach of his bound hands, catches it under his thumb, pulls taut, lifts his turning head until he is strangling, stars in his eyes, a heavenly hum in his ears, Holmes fucking his arse with that gun, _that gun_ , that gun, _Holmes_ , Holmes is clutching him, stroking him, unwinding the silk so Moriarty’s blood rushes and he is high on _no more breath_ and that gun echoes loud when Holmes drags back the hammer. . .

Moriarty despoils the threadbare carpet, shouts, doesn’t care who hears—what, that old woman? Let her—bends double as tension oozes from every muscle, leaving him weak. Once his breath is caught, he goes into the chest and fetches out a silk cravat, forest green with a slim black pinstripe, and arranges it in the shape of a valentine heart around the shimmering evidence of his visit, there on the bedroom rug.

Oh, Holmes. You  _kill_ me.


End file.
